


"Don't You Know Who You Are?"

by FalconFate



Series: IC Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Murtagh Morzansson gets a hug, Murtagh Morzansson is actually Murtagh Tornacsson, Murtagh Morzansson needs a hug, Pre-Canon, Tornac is his DAD OKAY, one of my blessed few Tornac the Human fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26646073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconFate/pseuds/FalconFate
Summary: Murtagh is the son of the two people who were, at one time, the most dangerous man and woman in the Empire. That legacy is one everyone expects him to carry, but no one ever asks what he thinks of it.No one ever considers that he might be his own person.No one has ever told him 'you're not a monster.'
Relationships: Murtagh Morzansson & Tornac (Inheritance Cycle)
Series: IC Tumblr Prompts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934254
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	"Don't You Know Who You Are?"

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This was my first attempt to answer a request made on @saphira-approves; it turned out angstier than I wanted, but I wanted to finish it and share it anyway!

_Thwack. Thunk._

He had only wanted to help.

The words rang in Murtagh’s ears, damning him, mocking him with every swing of the training sword in his hands. _Don’t you know who you are?_

_Thunk. Thunk. Thwack._

As if Murtagh could forget.

As if he could forget that his mother, dead for ten years, had been the Empire’s most feared assassin. As if he could forget that his father, dead not even a fortnight longer, had been the king’s right hand man for nearly a century.

As if Murtagh could forget that he carried the legacy of the two deadliest warriors in the Empire.

_Thwack. Thunk-thwack._

_Don’t you know who you are?_

“I know _damn well_ who I am!” he muttered through gritted teeth, dealing a flurry of savage blows to the training mannequin before him.

The sad, straw- and shavings-stuffed dummy shook with each hit, leaking sawdust from numerous splits in the canvas. Its head lolled drunkenly, the featureless face seeming to stare Murtagh down with indignant accusation, midnight shadows giving it the illusion of a leer. Anger flared in Murtagh’s chest, bright and hot and sticking in his throat, and with a strangled shout he brought his training sword down on the dummy’s crooked neck with a devastating blow.

As the blank wooden head rolled away past his feet, Murtagh took a step back. He let his sword fall to his side, bracing himself against his leg with the other hand, breathing heavily, wondering with frustration why the hell he wanted to _cry._ He was nearly fifteen, nearly grown, he shouldn’t be blubbering like a _child!_

Grown or not, the tears came anyway. Murtagh furiously dashed them away, tried to take a breath. It hitched in his throat, and he snarled in defiance of a fresh wave of tears, but too many emotions were swirling in his chest, as hot and loud and out of control as a stampede of wild stallions spooked by a storm, building and growing and mounting until Murtagh could only scream and hurl the wooden training sword at the opposite wall.

_But it wasn’t wooden at all, it was gleaming red metal, wicked and cold, and it brought only pain, pain, pain—_

He wasn’t sure when he had fallen to his knees in the dirt, but his fingers were digging painful bruises into his upper arms, and his shoulders shook with something that ached in his very core, something he didn’t know how to name. Yellow light spilled across the ground around him, but he took little notice of it until someone knelt before him and gently touched his shoulder.

Murtagh jerked away from the contact, though fifteen years of a noble son’s life quickly made him freeze. He’d be scolded if he had flinched away from a valet or a lord, but chastisement never came, and he cursed himself when he realized his whole body now was shaking harder than before, and he didn’t understand _why_.

“Murtagh, can you look at me?” a voice asked. Murtagh knew that voice. That was the voice Tornac used to soothe anxious horses.

Murtagh wasn’t _anxious._ He wasn’t some frightened animal. He would have told Tornac this, but he was sure the words would stick in his throat. He settled for a forceful _“Go away”_ instead.

A careful breath. “Murtagh, I won’t leave you. I’m worried about you.”

Something white-hot and ugly flashed through Murtagh’s chest. “Well _DON’T!_ ” he yelled, springing to his feet and glaring furiously. “No one worries about me, only about what I’ll become! And I’m just like him, aren’t I? I’m a _monster!”_

Tornac’s face was a mask of pain, but there was none of the fear Murtagh had grown used to seeing in the eyes of everyone around him. “No, you’re nothing like him,” said Tornac, slowly rising to his feet, his voice raw and sincere. “You are not a monster, Murtagh. You’re just lonely.”

_Lonely._

The word struck Murtagh at his core, rooting him to the spot. There was something in Tornac’s eyes he had only seen once before, long ago, something he didn’t want to put a name to. He didn’t want to even have _hope_ , only to have it struck down to waste away—but it was _there._

Even when the world blurred as Murtagh’s eyes welled with tears, even as Tornac carefully reached out and reeled him into a gentle embrace, even as Murtagh pressed his face into the older man’s shoulder and wept for all he was worth, Murtagh knew it was there. He clung to Tornac, the immovable rock in the midst of the raging sea, an unforgiving storm Murtagh had been drowning in for so long. No matter how the wind howled, or how the tides assailed him, Tornac held him fast.

For the first time, Murtagh knew that someone saw him for who he was.

For the first time, someone _understood_.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did cry while writing this; yes, it was at the "you're not a monster" line. Does it have anything to do with how much I identify with/project onto Murtagh? Maybe. Maybe a little.
> 
> And of course, while this wasn't the finished product of a prompt ask, it still came from a prompt! If you'd like to request an IC fic from me, head over to @saphira-approves! As always, comments and kudos are much appreciated! Stay safe y'all!


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